


Mirth and Masks

by chelonianmobile



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Chucklevoodoos, DiSTorTed TeXt, F/M, False Identity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Partial Mind Control, unreality trigger, zalgo text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26269429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: Request: "Marvus' showmanship seems like an insult to the clown church and the only reason she hasnt culled him out of her own fit of rage is because the stupid fucker has an ace up his sleeve and the 2 clowns are at a sexually frustrating stalemate." I used some theories of my own about Marvus' powers and the Possibly-Marvus hat guy in clown church in Chahut's route. I hope this is close enough to your prompt to be satisfying!
Relationships: Chahut Maenad/Marvus Xoloto
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Sloppy Seconds 2020





	Mirth and Masks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaoticnoitime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticnoitime/gifts).



They meet in the bars and the back alleys, at clown church and art galleries and any number of places purplebloods go b̸u̷t̷ ̸i̷s̸ ̶h̸e̴ ̴o̵n̴e̶ ̴o̸f̴ ̵t̷h̵e̵m̴ and she watches, watches, watches for him to be anything but what he seems. She watches passersby with growing intensity, and sometimes there will be one with purple clothes or a hat or a cane or long hair or anything j̶u̸s̶t̷ ̷o̵n̶e̵ ̴t̸h̸i̴n̴g̴ ̸t̷h̷a̵t̷ ̸l̶o̸o̷k̶s̶ ̸l̵i̷k̴e̴ ̷h̷i̷m̴ ̴n̴e̴v̸e̴r̸ ̵m̷o̴r̷e̵ and her eyes will slide off them as fast as the life will slide _out_ of his if she finds out she’s right.

Of course Chahut knows he doesn’t look like that, doesn’t sound like that, for real. Using the voodoos to work up a crowd is… not normal, exactly, because most purples can’t. The chucklevoodoos are for forcing fear, not admiration. But, by the best and strongest of them, it can be and _has_ been done, and she’s not the _very_ strongest but she’s strong enough to notice it. If she squints and lets her own voodoos fly, she can see just a shimmer of a hint of him behind the glamour s̵m̸a̶l̵l̸ ̵a̴n̶d̵ ̵p̴l̵a̶i̴n̸ and the rush his music gives to even her will drop i̸s̷ ̴h̵e̴ ̴e̶v̷e̴n̸ ̵a̶c̶t̷u̸a̸l̴l̸y̷ ̴s̸i̸n̸g̸i̶n̶g̸ and she can smell things she never would on a purple merely boosting his real performance n̴o̸ ̸p̵u̵r̸p̸l̴e̸ ̵w̵o̵u̵l̴d̵ ̵s̶t̶i̶n̵k̶ ̴s̵o̷ ̶m̷u̶c̴h̵ ̵o̴f̸ f̶̠̉e̷̺͝a̷̪̤̎̅r̸̮̣̚.

As far as she knows, she’s the only other purple, in Thrashthrust city at least, who’s ever noticed something’s wrong. Maybe it just doesn’t occur to the others to look; doesn’t occur that anyone would try. She doesn’t dare to ask around, not yet. If she’s wrong… but if she’s right…

She sees that hat in the congregation and focuses on it, even when no one else sees it (and they should, the sign is the first thing they should recognise, _how do they not,_ or do they just not care, or what?) and calls its wearer out behind the church. He slinks out, ingratiating posture and greasy smile in place, making him look a lot smaller (smaller than he usually _looks,_ or smaller than he _is?)_

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your conv-”

“Can the crap, Xoloto. I know it’s you.”

And, like a slitherbeast’s skin, he drops it, and he’s standing there in all his stage-ready glory j̸u̴s̷t̴ ̶a̸n̵o̵t̸h̵e̷r̷ ̴p̵e̴r̴s̴o̴n̷a̵ ̴f̵a̵k̵e̷ ̶a̶s̸ ̸f̸a̷i̵r̵i̵e̶s̵ and he shrugs and beams like sunlight. “Ah, can’t fool ya, ma buddy-sis.” Double pistols and a wink b̷u̷t̸ ̶s̴h̶e̵ ̶c̴a̴n̴ ̸s̶t̸i̷l̶l̶ ̶s̷m̷e̸l̷l̵ ̴t̵h̸e̶ ̶w̷o̴r̸r̸y̶ ̶o̶n̸ ̶h̴i̴m̶.̵Still, he’s good. He recovered pretty damn fast there.

“I’m not your buddy nor your sister,” she says, flat and harsh. “Are any of us?”

Xoloto shrugs, loose and lazy, a big sweeping gesture, like all his gestures are. “No idea whatcha mean.”

Chahut scoffs. “You’re no true follower of the mirthful words, not if I know my voodoos right, and you’re gettin’ away with it. You’re a phony who walks unsigned among the gutterbloods and uses his Messiah-given skills to blow himself fulla hot air.” She steps closer, and her mind battles to tell whether she’s looming over him or looking him in the eye. “Are they Messiah-given? I don’t see it. I half don’t believe you’re even a _troll.”_

“Mirth an’ masks go well together, don’t they?” he says lightly t̸h̸o̷u̶g̸h̷ ̵h̷e̷ ̸s̷t̸i̴l̸l̴ ̸s̵t̵i̸n̶k̸s̷ ̷o̵f̸ ̷f̴r̵i̷g̵h̸t̶.̶ He brushes his fingers against his face, and they come away white and greasy, and he wipes them on her hand. The paint’s the realest thing about him. 

She snatches his hat, and examines it. Just a hat, the sign stitched on, quite normal. Still suspicious. It’s not advisable to wear one’s sign only on an item so easily lost, and half the time he doesn’t wear it. To walk unsigned… she shudders. It’s as bad as strutting the streets naked. To lack a mark is the mark of a conquered one, a slave, a _non-troll,_ and when he does, no one ever notices or cares. Marvus Xoloto could in fact strut the streets naked if he wished, and either he’d be cheered on every step and start a trend, or no one would even know he was there. The smug grin he hasn’t dropped d̸e̵s̷p̸i̶t̵e̴ ̴h̶i̸s̵ ̵f̷e̵a̴r̷ proves he knows it, and loathing rises in her chest, hot and black as fresh-poured tar.

He’s examining her sign. “Hope-bound,” he murmurs. “Ah, one I gotta watch. You an’ the Void an’ Heart, sometimes y’all can see what’s really there.” He chuckles. “You ain’t yet, though.”

“When I do,” Chahut hisses, “you’ll know.”

“‘Spect I will. Hat, pl’z?” Even his pronunciation makes her wince. Chahut slams the hat flat between her huge hands and flings it to the ground. He watches, smile unfaltering, even when she grabs him and twists and pushes him against the wall a̶n̵d̵ ̵h̷e̷ ̸w̸e̵i̴g̸h̶s̴ ̷h̷a̶l̶f̴ ̴w̴h̵a̴t̵ ̷s̸h̵e̸ ̷e̸x̴p̷e̸c̸t̴e̷d̴.̵

“When I find out what’s behind your mask, showman,” she growls, “your name will be whispered in fear to remind wigglers of the fate a’ heretics. If they dare repeat what I do to your treacherous ass.”

“Could be, could be.” Marvus nods. “Till then, though? Kill me now, and ya got the wrath a’ the whole lotta my fans on _your_ fine behind. Even if I’m fakin’ they’ll be mad.” He chuckles. “You good, sis. You strong. But no one’s that good.”

Damn it all, he’s right. Chahut punches the wall beside his head, leaking honestly-come-by cold and purple blood onto Marvus’ purple coat. His hands clench on his cane.

“I hate you.”

“Can’t say you ma fave troll right now.” His eyes glimmer, and something prods at her thinkpan and his charm is turned up to eleven, and she leans on the wall to support her weak knees, aiming to put a hand around his throat and instead finding herself stroking his chin, and he pushes forward and kisses her and she lets him back her up to the opposite wall.

“I _know_ you’re doin’ somethin’ to my pan, Xoloto.”

“I know you know. You care?”

Her bulge is making its sticky, slimy way out of her waistband already. “Not really.” She pushes on his shoulder and he drops like a rock. “Makes me hate you all the more.”

Obediently, politely, he starts to suck, pulling her pants further down to get at her nook with his fingers, and that feels real enough b̵̻̽u̵̫̒́ť̵͍̻ ̷̪̚ĭ̴̗̑s̸͚̑̚ ̸͍̻̏h̸̬̳̓̕e̶̙̰̎ ̵̝̾̅ṭ̸̜̑͠o̷̱͖͑̕o̵̯͌ ̶̭͌̿w̸̱͠á̶̖r̴̭͒m̸̩̟̋͑,̶̪̽ ̶̱̆͝t̸̞̓̈́ò̵̼͜ö̸̯ ̸̛͖c̸̹͕̎o̵̞̿͗ͅl̸̤̐ͅd̶͔͋,̴̳̘̿͠ ̵͖͑͜i̵̜͍̐̾ẗ̸̲̩́̍'̷͑ͅs̷̡̤͝ ̴̥̝͛͛s̶̰̰̀̄ỏ̸͍ ̵̞̓h̵̫̠̿̍a̶̧̓̃r̶̗̍̆d̷͇̞̽̿ ̸͉̈̈́ṫ̴͈̙̍ö̴̭̣́ ̴̛̝̯t̴̛̥̻̚e̶͖̾l̶͓̈́l̴̟̣̍. She rests her foot in his crotch and rubs, but her boot leather’s too thick to feel what if anything is happening through it; she looks, and both his hands are on her and his pants are still buttoned, and she hates him all the more for not sating even her simplest curiosity.

She grabs his horns for leverage, she yanks his hair when he uses his claws and his hair feels real enough too, and close to the end she sees something that might be his slurry drip through the seam of his pants to the ground but he hasn’t come it’s just lubrication and there’s only a drop or two and it’s dark and the ground’s dirty i̶͈̮͊s̸̗̄ ̶͎͓͋̈ï̶̹͉͠t̵̼͌̀ ̵̰͝ī̷̼̻͌s̵͇̋ ̸̠͉̈ị̴̔̅ṭ̴̨̔͠ ̵͕̔̉ _ị̵͛s̷͈͂͝ ̸̠ͅi̷̤̓t̴̡̻͝ ̵̥̕͝ **P̵̭̘̰̖͖̦̗̪͇̩͕͖̞̬̜͗̊̃̀͜͠Ü̷̗͖̫̥̤͎͖͓͉͝Ȓ̶̢̨̻̫͉͚͈͕̣͔̤͚͈͉͙̉̄́͒͑̈́̆̓̾̍͝͝P̸̢̖̮̯̞̦̝̰̱̭̙̮͔̮̈̐̈̈́͗̈́̍̒̽͜L̸̛͉͔̝̩̳̓̓̊̃͋̈́̕̚E̵̛̞͎̠̍͆̇̾͆̊͝**_ and then she comes, hard, and all she sees is white.

She leans limply on the wall, panting, as he untangles her claws from his hair. He’s still unsheathed, she can see the lump in his pants, but he steps away from her without looking, and picks up his battered hat.

“One night, Xoloto,” she says, voice hoarse.

He turns back to her, and nods. “One night, sure. But not tonight.”

There’s still a tang in the air of his nervousness as he walks away, but only a tang, and he’s whistling, like he has nothing on Alternia to fear.


End file.
